


Trains and Winter Rains

by erebones



Series: The Twelve Days of Fever [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Grief/Mourning, Holidays, Loss of Parent(s) (mentioned), M/M, Modern Thedas, Off-screen Relationship(s), Recovery, Therapy, Trains, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Five years ago, Carver fled the Free Marches after his mother's funeral, leaving behind his siblings, his friends, and his fiance without another look back. Now Bethany has finally convinced him to attend a week of very un-holiday shenanigans at a beach house in Par Vollen. In the interest of rebuilding bridges, he agreed. But when he realizes who's sitting next to him on the train out of Minrathous, he's starting to regret it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is not your typical holiday story. There IS a happy ending, of course! But there are some difficulties along the way, so please read the tags and proceed with caution if any of them twig you.
> 
> Also, Leandra "Lele" Tethras belongs to earlgreyer, who was kind enough to let me borrow her for this one :)

The phone only has to ring twice before there’s a _click_ in Carver’s ear and he hears his twin sister’s voice on the other end, a little bit breathless and pitched high with… something. Relief? Probably relief. “Carver! I was just about to call you. How are things?”

“Uh, good. I just landed at the airport in Minrathous.” Carver leans harder against the wall, glancing around at the holiday chaos flooding the airport with grumpy passengers and harried-looking employees. His skin crawls a little bit and he turns away, looking out the windows instead. “You won’t believe this, but it’s snowing here.”

“It’s _what_? Oh, Maker. What is the world coming to.” Something clatters on the other end of the line and she must tilt the phone away from her mouth, because her voice comes through fainter as she calls, “Lele! Don’t touch that, please, those are for tomorrow.”

“ _But Mooooom_ …”

Carver waits patiently as the ensuing argument unfolds, and then Bethy comes back on the line, voice determinedly cheerful. Sometimes he thinks his sister got all the goodness between them, and Carver got none. “Sorry about that. We just got here, so things are a bit of a shambles. Just a second. Varric! Sweetheart, can you take Lele outside? Thank you. Okay. Sorry. So you’re in Minrathous, that’s excellent! When is your connecting flight?”

Carver stares grimly out the window. “There is no connecting flight, not for hours. Everyone’s in a tizzy because they’ve never seen snow before, everything outbound is delayed.”

Bethany gives a little incredulous noise. “How _much_ snow…?”

“Erm. Flurries. Maybe there’s worse coming, but I don’t think so. I can see a patch of blue sky.” He squints dubiously at the patch in question and turns away from the window. “I’m going to take a train instead, but it’s going to be a longer trip.”

“That’s fine, sweetie, as long as you get here before tomorrow. I’ll even come pick you up from the train station. Maker, I hope it doesn’t start snowing here, that would ruin the whole thing!”

“It’s not going to snow in Par Vollen, Bethy,” he says patiently. This flurry in Minrathous is unusual, but he can’t see it spreading any further north. “Our tropical holiday is safe. I’m going to go find the train terminal now, I’ll call you when I get my ticket. Okay?”

“Okay. See you soon, Carv. I can’t wait to see you!”

“Can’t wait to see you, too,” he murmurs, and he takes the phone away from his ear with a sigh. It’s the truth—he hasn’t seen his sister in a while, and he hasn’t seen his niece since she was born. He’s a terrible uncle. _Stop. You’re not a terrible uncle. You’ve been taking care of you, and that’s not a bad thing._ The words in his head almost sound like Cassandra, and it fortifies him against the chaos buffeting him from all sides as he forges his way down to the ticket counter. Maker save him from Satinalia cheer.

Par Vollen had been Bethy’s idea. A last-ditch effort to get Carver to participate in the holidays this year. He hasn’t been around for Satinalia or the New Year in five years, and even though this new “tradition” is unlike any he’s been a part of before, it still sits oddly on his shoulders, like a coat that doesn’t quite fit.

It’s partly his own fault, he muses as he finds the ticket counter and purchases a seat on the next train to Par Vollen. It’s a high-speed train, the attendant tells him in a proud, accented voice—and it travels _under_ the channel from Tevinter to the small island state, which is apparently a very new and modern thing that Carver is supposed to be excited about. Carver doesn’t really get excited about anything these days, but he makes the effort at a smile and a wooden, unpracticed _Happy Satinalia_ before he turns and flees.

To tell the truth, he prefers the train. Flying is quicker, but it’s always crowded and hectic this time of year. On the flight over from Ferelden—a monstrous six hours that are still buzzing in the back of his head like bees—he’d had the misfortune of sitting next to a family of toddlers, one of whom was airsick. The parents looked at the end of their rope, and Carver didn’t envy them. Doesn’t even envy his sister, though he adores his niece and always sends extravagant gifts at birthdays and holidays. He pulls out his phone and flips to the latest pictures of Lele. She’s four now, chubby-cheeked and precocious, with frizzy white-blonde hair from her dad’s side and brilliant blue eyes from his mother’s. They’re Malcolm’s eyes, _Carver’s_ eyes, and it hurts a little bit to see them. If her hair gets redder with age, like her namesake’s, that will just be the icing on top of the sad, broken family cake.

He sighs and turns the screen off, settling into his seat. It’s not due to leave for another half hour, but he wanted to stake out his spot, taking up the seat beside him with his jacket and briefcase as a warning to any passengers who think he might make a good conversationalist for the trip north. After a moment he rummages inside of it and pops out his earbuds. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can put on something soothing and fall asleep for the entire four-hour ride.

What on earth possessed him to travel so far on Satinalia Eve? Oh, right. Bethy. He grumbles a little to himself and shuts his eyes against the dull fluorescent glare of the lights overhead. Oh _please_ , baby brother, won’t you _please_ come to Par Vollen with us and do nothing for the holidays? We aren’t even going to do presents this year, or dinner. I _promise_.

Carver snorts. It hadn’t been any of those things that bothered him in prior years, keeping him from traveling to Kirkwall where the scant remains of his family still lived. It been the glaring absence of everyone who wasn’t there. His father, who had succumbed to cancer when he and Bethy were just ten years old. His mother, who passed away fifteen years later at the tender age of fifty-two, just as Carver was starting to find his feet in the Kirkwall police force. Garrett, who he had a massive shouting match with at his mother’s funeral, and who he hasn't seen since. Who he _refused_ to see since.

His fiance. His head aches suddenly and he rubs his forehead, belly twisting uncomfortably. His fiance, who he’d left behind in Kirkwall and never spoken to again. Five years ago today. He knew it was selfish, staying away when Bethany so badly wanted him to visit during the holidays, but he couldn’t bear it. There were too many bad memories. Too many people he’d alienated or driven off in his grief.

He thinks back to his most recent session with Dr. Pentaghast, sitting cosily in a massive armchair in front of the hearth in her office at Skyhold Medical Centre. He likes it there because it looks more like a sitting room than a psychologist’s office, and because she never decorates for the holidays. After trudging through streets lined with twinkling fairy lights and chiming bells and knots of carolers at every corner, coming to her plain, warm office without so much as a hint of cinnamon or evergreen is a balm on his psyche.

“Are you having any second thoughts?” she asked after he’d explained his holidays plans.

“I mean, yeah. I usually do. But, um, I think I’m ready. I need to… be a part of the family again. If it means apologizing to Gare, so be it. I’ve faced worse dragons.”

If he’s honest, Garrett isn’t what he’s most afraid of for this little get-together. It’s the _other_ attendees who are all taking a break for the normal chaos of Satinalia traditions. It had been Bethy’s hope that inviting a lot of people would keep Carver from noticing the glaring absence of their parents, but all he feels is discomfort at the amount of people he will have to avoid when he gets anxious and needs alone time. Garrett is bringing his husband, of course, and Anders will probably be there too. Carver doesn’t understand that dynamic and he doesn’t want to. Varric, obviously, with the two kids from his previous marriage, Bethy and Lele, Aveline and Donnic, Cullen and Dorian, Merrill, Isabela, Zev, and… Felix.

It still hurts to think about him. He isn’t sure why Bethany invited him—or why he accepted—but according to her they’ve become good friends since Felix was transferred to the biomagical department at Kirkwall U. Carver shuts his eyes and turns the music up, pulling his hood low over his face to block out some of the light. If he’s very lucky, there will be so many people and so many things going on that he’ll hardly see his ex-fiance at all, and he can escape back to his tidy little flat in Denerim none the worse for wear.

The train starts to hum, and he realizes they’re about to depart. Thank goodness. He can feel the vibrations more than he hears the hiss of the magnetized tracks as they start forward, picking up speed. He peeks one eye open. All around him, people are finding their seats and getting settled in. Feeling safe, he moves his coat to cover his knees and puts the briefcase between his feet before safekeeping before he settles back down for (he hopes) a long winter’s nap.

He’s barely started to doze off when he feels the distinct pressure of someone sitting in the seat next to him. Damn it. He grimly refuses to open his eyes and tucks his chin harder into his hoodie. Four hours. He can do four hours. _Just sleep_ , he tells himself, but now his brain is humming, wondering what unfeeling bastard took his spare seat. Reluctantly he peeks one eye open to take a glance.

All he can really see from this angle are the shoes. Sleek black boots, old-school oxford style, with skinny dark grey jeans folded just to the tops. One leg is stretched out to expose an inch of dark green sock—mutedly festive. Carver approves. He sighs a little and settles back down.

His chest seizes suddenly as he catches a whiff of the man sitting next to him. He’s wearing a bit of scent, something posh and expensive that Carver doesn’t know the name of, but oh, he recognizes it. He recognizes it like he recognizes the simple band around the man’s pinky finger, gleaming where his hand rests on his thigh; remembers it like he remembers the sound of shattered glass and the pungent aroma of a broken cologne bottle, stinking up the whole apartment until he couldn’t stand it and he left, left everything behind to start over somewhere no one knew his name.

_Felix._

Oh bloody, bloody hell. They’re going to the same place, of _course_ Felix would also be stuck in Minrathous with the airport all but closed. Why he’s traveling alone, Carver doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter. He’s in for four hours of _hell_.

He’s braced for disaster for a long, long time. His playlist runs out and he doesn’t even notice, just sits in paralyzed silence, waiting for Felix to recognize him and start yelling. Or crying, maybe. Or maybe he’ll just stand up and leave. But Felix does nothing. Perhaps it’s Carver’s hood pulled so low, or his own distractions—his phone, at first, then a book by a Tevinter author that Carver didn’t recognize—but Felix doesn’t even turn his way.

About an hour in, Carver finally starts to relax. He even feels comfortable enough to lift a hand and scratch his beard briefly. _The beard._ Of course! The last time he saw Felix, a week after his mother’s funeral, he’d been cleanshaven. He only started to grow the beard afterward, mainly through neglect, until he finally gathered the courage to face a mirror and a pair of trimming scissors.

An hour and a half, and Carver surreptitiously checks his phone. No new messages, but there’s a notification offering to connect him to the train’s wifi. He does so, and busies himself with reading emails. There aren’t many. Two from Sera, updating him on the state of his dog (good) and the state of his apartment (too bloody neat by half, weirdo, you do actually live here right?). One from Cassandra, short but reassuring all the same. _You’ve got this, Hawke. You’re doing the right thing._ He closes his eyes and lets out a little breath, and it takes some tension with it. He came here to mend bridges long since burnt, and by the Maker he’s going to do it.

Filled with sudden renewed courage, he steals another look at the man beside him. A lump sticks in his throat. Felix looks so… so _grown up_. They’re nearly of an age, and it’s only been five years, but even so. Time has been kind to him—kinder than to Carver, he thinks. His dark hair is cut close to his head, and he’s wearing glasses, chic modern ones with thick platinum frames. A faint shadow of stubble darkens his cheeks, and he’s got his chin tucked into a plummy red scarf that looks expensive. Everything about him looks expensive, _smells_ expensive, and he’s got a composed, confident air about him, even distracted by the book. In a word, he’s… beautiful. Carver shuts his eyes again, guts twisting. In comparison, dressed in ratty jeans and smelling like twelve hours of travel, he only feels obsolete.

 _You’re doing the right thing._ He can almost see Cassandra in his mind’s eye, with that tiny private smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. He wants her to be proud of him. He wants _Bethy_ to be proud of him.

Almost on autopilot, he stretches a little in his seat as if waking from a nap and sits forward, rubbing his eyes and pulling his silent headphones out of his ears. He pushes his hood back and ruffles his hair, making sure it lies flat as he half-turns and says, “Excuse me, d’you mind if I—”

 _D’you mind if I squeeze past? I need to use the loo_. They’re the words he meant to say, but instead he swallows them, mouth suddenly dry. Felix stares at him with the full force of his gaze, lips parted as if caught off guard, and everything in his head dwindles down to a single point. “...Fee.”

Felix flinches a little at the nickname and closes his book with a snap. “I’m sorry, did you need to get up?” Without waiting for an answer, he slides from the seat and stands aside, gaze averted. Carver thinks his bladder has never been emptier, but he gets out anyway, self-conscious of his bulk as he brushes Felix’s shoulder in spite of every attempt not to.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and flees.

 _Maker, what a cock-up_. He jiggles in front of the urinal a bit, but it still takes a while for anything to come out. He zips up after and goes to wash his hands, wincing at what he sees in the mirror. His beard is unkempt, even though he’d trimmed it before he left for the airport yesterday, and his eyes are bloodshot with tiredness and stress. He can’t do anything about _that_ , but he can wet his fingers and comb them through his beard and through his hair, and he can straighten his hoodie and stand up straight, shoulders back like he has nothing to be ashamed of. Like he didn’t drag Felix’s heart through the dirt five years ago. His reflection winces at him, and Carver turns away. Whatever he can do to make up for that, he’ll do, but he can’t expect forgiveness. He won’t. He doesn’t deserve it.

 _This isn’t about what you deserve, Carver,_ says Cassandra’s voice in his head, smooth and patient. Her Nevarran accent has always been soothing to him. _What you do or do not deserve is not for you to decide. All you have to decide is what kind of life you want to live right now._

Carver shuts his eyes. He wants to live a life that’s happy. A life that lets him see his family without being overwhelmed by them, a life that lets him lower his guard enough to accept help when someone offers it. _I just want to help you_ , Felix had said, the last time they spoke.

“I don’t need help.” Carver whispers the words aloud. They were some of the last word he’d ever said to Felix out loud until today. Maker, he was so lost, and he’d refused to admit it.

Underneath his feet, he can feel the train starting to slow. Last stop before Par Vollen. He ends up standing aside while a flood of people exit the carriage, and by the time he finds his way back to his seat, the train is very nearly empty, and Felix has moved across the aisle. Not the other end of the train, like Carver might have expected, but still putting a little space between them. Still, he can’t help the little bitter pill of disappointment he tastes at the back of his tongue. He nods to him civilly but doesn’t even pause to see whether Felix noticed as he retakes his seat and retrieves his phone.

There’s a message waiting from Bethany.

_Two hours to go! I can’t wait to see you! Dorian says Felix is on the same train as you, so if you see him tell him I said hello and we’re all very excited for you both to arrive._

He snorts a half-smile and types back: _I’m going to want to sleep for a week. I hope that’s all you had planned._

 _Pretty much_ , is the quick answer, and then nothing. He sighs.

“Are you looking forward to this week?”

Carver starts and looks up. Felix has put his book face down in his lap, one finger holding his place. One leg is crossed over the other, angling his body toward the aisle. And toward Carver. _He’s giving you a chance, idiot. Take it._ He swallows and sits upright.

“I… yes. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen… everyone.” He can’t quite meet Felix’s eyes, but he’s desperate not to let this slim strand of hope slide from his grasp. “I haven’t seen Lele since she was born.”

“Really? That’s a shame. She’s a very bright girl.”

“Yes I know.” The need to defend himself rises in his throat, but he swallows it back. “Bethy sends me pictures constantly. She’s growing up so fast.”

Felix nods in studied agreement. His face—and his voice—are still neutral, but it’s better than nothing. “I have to admit I was surprised when Beth told me you agreed to come.”

Carver considers the unspoken question. _Why are you here?_ “I’ve been hiding for long enough,” he says at last, slowly, like he’s testing each word in his mouth before he speaks them. “It’s time to be part of my family again. This seemed as good a way as any to start apologizing.”

“Apologizing?”

“I shut everyone out,” Carver says simply. He knows Felix is trying to maintain the polite distance he’s cultivated, but if they’re to be spending a week in the same beach house, what’s the point of pretending? “I shut Garrett and Bethany out, I shut you out. I shut all of bloody Kirkwall away, and tried to run from everything that happened there. There’s a lot that’s gone unsaid and I need to… to say it. According to my therapist, it will actually help.” He tries for a smile, but Felix is like a blank wall—everything just sort of slides off without making an impression. When he makes no immediate reply, Carver stifles a sigh and returns to his phone.

In spite of the lack of depth, the fact that they had any kind of conversation at all is comforting. Carver no longer feels quite so tense, and he’s even able to play a few rounds of Flappy Dragon without getting pissed off. Felix, he notices, does not return to his book, just stares out the window at the dark insides of the undersea tunnel as they whiz through, twisting the ring on his pinky absently.

Carver is contemplating reaching for his headphones again when Felix takes a sudden breath and turns his way. “Why did you never call?”

He freezes. “What do you mean?”

“When you left, I—I mean, I wasn’t expecting an apology. Not right away. You made it clear that we were… through.” His voice is shaking just a little bit, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “But after a year… or maybe two, I thought…”

_Glass shattering on the wall, the smell of cologne flooding the room. Felix, flinching back._

_“Get out! I don’t want your help, I don’t **need** your help, and I don’t need you.” Heaving for breath, panic spiraling, making it hard to think clearly. The words fall out of him like vomit, unasked-for, prompted by the misery choking him from the inside. “Sell the bloody ring for all I care. I don’t want to see you again.”_

“I wanted to,” Carver hears himself say. He shakes off the memory slowly, forcing himself to focus on the present. He turns so that he’s facing the aisle, and the man on the other side of it. “I… tried. A few times. I could never make the call.” There was one memorable time where he had managed to press _send_ on his cell, but he’d ended the call before it even connected. The thought of Felix actually picking up on the other side was too terrifying.

“I waited, you know,” Felix says into the silence. For the first time his voice is fraught with pent-up emotion, and Carver isn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified. “I waited for you to call me and take it back. I knew—I _knew_ you couldn’t have meant it. But you never… not even a text. Not even a bloody _email_ , Carver.”

“I’m sorry.” The words feel so inadequate, but he stares him down as he says them, willing him to hear and understand his sincerity.

Before Felix has a chance to respond, the lights overhead flicker and grow dim. Beneath his feet, Carver can feel the hum of the train change in pitch, and then the distinct sensation of slowing down. He looks out the window, but all he can see is darkness. They’re still in the tunnel.

“What…?” He’s interrupted by the crackling of the intercom, and a strained female voice begins announcing something in Tevene. He knows they’ll switch to Trade when the first bit is done, but he turns to Felix anyway, watching his face as the message plays out. “What’s going on?”

Felix holds up a hand, brow wrinkling deeply in a way it never used to. “There’s… there’s something wrong with the train. Something about the cold and wet back in Minrathous… getting into the bit that powers the engine. Maker’s breath, are they serious?”

Carver’s skin has come over clammy, and against his will a knot of fear is forming in his throat. “What’s going to happen?”

“They’re stopping the train here to conserve power until the engineer can get things up and running again. _Anticipate a delay of up to forty minutes_.” He mocks the announcer’s tone pitch-perfectly, even in a different language. “They’re sending people up and down the cars to make sure everyone’s comfortable.”

No sooner has Felix finished than the same announcement rolls out again, this time in accented Trade. Carver is grateful for Felix’s premature translation, because between the distortion of the intercom and the accent, he only catches a handful of words here and there. He swallows hard and checks his phone. The wifi is down. _Probably to conserve power_ , he tells himself, but logic isn’t enough to soothe him. He feels cut off from the entire world, trapped under miles of water and rock. He can already feel himself breaking into a cold sweat. _Get it together, idiot. You’re a grown man. Act like it._

Across the aisle, Felix asks, quietly, “Does it feel colder in here to you?”

Carver had thought it was only nerves, but now that Felix has said something about it it seems more noticeable. He glances at the overhead compartment where his luggage rests. “A little. I have a spare jumper if you want to borrow—”

“No. No, thank you.” The response is so quick and decisive that Carver recoils just a bit. Right.

The sliding door at the front of the carriage hisses open, and a harried-looking train attendant ploughs through in their direction. She glances between them quickly—Felix, with his dark Tevinter skin, and Carver, about as colorful as a sheet of paper—and says, in Trade, “I am very sorry about the delay. Everyone on board is perfectly safe, and you may stay here if you prefer, but we are going to be monitoring the atmospheric controls very closely and we may decide to cut the heat in the latter carriages. If you like, the sleeper cars are being made available to passengers near the front of the train where you can be more comfortable while you wait. We will also have complimentary refreshments in the dining car.”

She waits a beat or two for questions, and strides off again toward the back of the train when they only stare at her. Carver, for his part, is still trying to get his head on straight. He tries to think back to when he boarded, but he can’t recall what number carriage he’s on, or how far back they are.

“Well,” Felix says, drawing the frayed remnants of his good manners back into place, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take my things to the front. I have no interest in being colder than I already am.”

He stands, and Carver scrambles to follow. There’s no way he’s staying here by himself, in a stalled train far underground. Claustrophobia seizes his throat and it takes a few tries for him to say, weakly, “I think I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”

Felix regards him a moment, some undefined emotion lurking beneath his glassy-smooth façade, and then nods. “I don’t.” He sounds as if he _does_ , but is too polite to mention otherwise. Carver is beyond giving a shit. He shrugs on his jacket, grabs his duffel and briefcase, and follows him down the narrow aisle toward the front of the train.

It becomes clear pretty quickly that there’s hardly anyone on the train but for them. There’s a group of qunari surfers in one of the first sleeper compartments they pass, roughhousing and generally making a ruckus. Taking advantage of the complimentary drinks cart, obviously. A family of four is in the next, with two sour-looking teenagers nose-deep in their phones, and then an elderly couple, one of whom looks to be sound asleep. Felix passes them all, apparently not interested in making conversation with strangers, and Carver tags along, feeling a bit like a lost puppy as Felix finally picks out an empty cabin. He gets settled in without paying Carver any mind, so Carver tries to do the same. It’s cosy, at least, warmer than the general second-class seating, with two bunks on either side piled with blankets and pillows. The damask shades are pulled shut, and Carver is content to keep them that way. He very studiously does not look at them, or at Felix, as he builds a little nest for himself so that he can sit with his back to the wall, propped up by pillows. He gets his laptop out just for appearance’s sake and opens a game of solitaire. And… doesn’t actually play.

 _This is all Bethy’s fault, somehow_ , he thinks tiredly, staring at the screen without actually seeing the cards. He can hear Felix breathing, steady as a metronome, and the occasional rustle of him shifting in his own nest of blankets. It’s… he doesn’t know what it is. Awful, horrible, wonderful. All of the above.

He had thought it would be easier than this. But then, it’s not like he _planned_ to be stuck in a small sleeper bunk on a stalled train underground with him. He’d been hoping more for the _awkward avoidance as we stick to opposite ends of the beach_ thing. Not… this. Whatever this is.

Felix shifts again, drawing Carver’s eye, and he’s embarrassed to find Felix looking back. _Maker, could this get any worse?_

“I don’t remember you ever being claustrophobic.”

Carver nearly bites his tongue in half. _It just got worse._ “How could you tell?” he asks lightly instead of responding. It’s been months since he had a nightmare about being trapped underground, and he’s not looking forward to the relapse this will likely spark. Talking about it isn’t going to help.

“You were never very good at hiding what you were feeling,” Felix says, a touch drily. “Not from me, anyway.”

It’s true. Carver hates that it’s _still_ true. Felix always had a knack for seeing under his armor. It was part of the reason he fell in love with him—Felix saw what was underneath, and wanted to be with him anyway. _Had_ wanted. “Well.” He licks too-dry lips and stares at the ceiling, trying not to feel the weight of rock and water overhead. “Years of recurring night terrors changes a man, I suppose.” He doesn’t go into further detail, and Felix doesn’t press him, thank the Maker. He can’t explain the dreams to himself, let alone _him_.

“I’m… sorry for prying.” Felix looks as uncomfortable as he sounds. He draws his blanket tighter around his shoulders and very carefully doesn’t look Carver in the eyes. “It’s none of my business.”

 _Not anymore_ is the unspoken addendum. For some reason, it riles him. “We dated for three years,” he says bluntly, and that, finally, is enough to startle Felix into looking straight at him, no barrier to the expression on his face. “Engaged for the last six months or so. If it’s anyone’s business but my own, it’s yours. You deserve that much.”

Felix’s mouth works silently for a moment and then he says, strained, “Seven and a half.”

“Sorry?”

“We were engaged for seven and a half months.” He _does_ look away then, but slowly, like the excruciating peel of a plaster away from the skin.

Carver’s mouth is very dry, but he has no words to fill the silence, and so it stretches. Felix is playing with his ring again, twisting it to and fro on his pinky without actually looking at it. Carver can’t quite make it out from here, but he know what is it: a simple silver band, fashioned in the likeness of two snakes twined together, with tiny chips of veridium for their eyes. Apparently it’s an Alexius family heirloom. It looks quite lonely on his hand without the ring Carver gave him five and a half years ago. Plain silver, no inscriptions, just a narrow band of marbled veridium all along the center.

_Sell the bloody ring for all I care. I don’t want to see you again._

It feels like it’s getting colder in the carriage, but that might just be him. His own head working against him, like always. “What did you do with the ring?” he asks, mostly to keep his mind off the train situation, but he regrets it as soon as he sees Felix’s expression shutter.

“ _That_ is none of your business.”

Felix had never given him a ring. They were looking, but then Leandra had gotten ill, and the next seven months quickly spiraled from premarital bliss to a waking nightmare. The technicalities of it had kept him afloat at first—the hospital visits, setting up hospice care, figuring out funeral arrangements and the will and the life insurance. He moved through it like stone, and when it was over, everything exploded.

 _You exploded, you mean._ Carver looks at the empty space on his left hand where he’d hoped, for a short time, that he would wear a ring, too.

“I knew it was you.”

Carver stirs, eyes blinking open in the cold. “I’m sorry?”

Felix isn’t looking at him, at first, but between one breath and the next he folds his arms across his chest and meets his eyes. “I knew it was you I was sitting next to. When I got on the train.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Reality feels sort of muddled—he can’t reconcile the Felix who snapped when he offered his spare jumper with the Felix who is now sharing his space, who is confessing to sitting next to him _on purpose_. He forces a smile. “No other seats anywhere, huh? You must have really been desperate.”

Felix doesn’t laugh. “There were other seats.” Twist, twist, twist goes the ring. His nails are smooth and clean, perfectly symmetrical, like they’ve been manicured. Carver wonders when that particular habit developed; the Felix he remembers, five years younger and happier, had never had time for such frivolities, would tease Dorian whenever he flaunted his perfect nails or freshly-threaded eyebrows.

“Why?” Carver asks, forcing the words out to keep from obsessing over these minute, bizarre details.

Felix looks supremely uncomfortable. “I… don’t really know. I suppose I wanted to see… what you were like.”

Carver spreads his hands. “Well, look away. I’m older, as you can see. Fatter. Hairier.” He rubs his beard, and the reflexive gesture is oddly soothing. _Still there. Still five years older. Still recovering. You’re doing okay._

Felix snorts. It’s _almost_ a laugh. “You’re not _fat_ , Carver. A little stockier, maybe. That’s what happens when you get older.”

“Which explains why you’re just as trim and fit as the last time I saw you.”

 _Maker_ , it feels good to tease him. Feels good to see Felix smile, even for a moment, with perfect sincerity. “I’m not,” he demurs. “And you’ll agree, once you see me in my trunks.”

“I can’t wait,” Carver says without thinking, and just like that, the mood sours.

Felix looks away. “Carver…”

“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” His chest feels tight again, but it’s not claustrophobia this time. “I don’t… I don’t expect…”

“What? For me to fall back into your arms?” There’s a sting of incredulous laughter in his voice, and Carver shrinks from it, from _himself_. He isn’t sure when he started wanting that, but the revelation sticks in his craw like fishbones, making it impossible to speak. But he doesn’t have to. Felix isn’t done. “Five years is a long time, Carver. I've seen other people. I've tried to move on.”

The _tried_ bit sticks out. Carver stares at the floor and whispers, against his better judgement, “I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Silence. He doesn’t dare look up.

After an age, Felix speaks, his voice gritty and tense. “Then why did you never say so?”

It’s an invitation to open the floodgates, and Carver can’t resist. “Why do you think? I was a mess. I was… there were days I didn't even recognize myself.” He rubs his face and tries to marshal his thoughts, but they’re spinning in every direction and he doesn’t know how to corral them, how to put them in the proper order. “How could I call you up and beg for your forgiveness when I couldn't even get out of bed most days? And then, later, I… I knew you were better off without me. So what was the point?”

“ _Better off?_ ” Felix scoffs. “You never thought I would want closure, even if that were true? An apology? Some tiny acknowledgement that you hurt me?” His voice is biting, sharp and stinging like a wasp, or the business end of a nail, but Carver can’t protest it because he knows every word is true. “You're pretty selfish, you know. Don't you think I deserved that? Deserved the chance to decide what I was _better off_ with? No, you didn't.” Felix draws an unsteady breath. “You made that decision for me.”

Feeling very small, Carver asks, “How could you decide anything different?”

For a while there’s no sound in the bunk except the harsh duality of their breathing. At last Felix says, wearily, “Because I was in love with you, idiot. I could have forgiven a lot. Even a bottle of cologne thrown at my head.”

“I missed,” Carver protests, barely audible over the roaring in his ears. _Maker save me, I really did ruin everything. And now it really is too late to fix it._

“On purpose? Or because you just have shit aim?”

“I wasn't aiming for your _head_ , Fee.” The very idea repulses him. “I could never.”

“Oh. Well that's good.” Felix deflates a little, but _only_ a little. His head swings from side to side as if looking for escape, and his voice picks up in pitch and agitation. “See? Months—no, years—of hating you for that, that streak of abusiveness I thought you had. Wasted.” Pause. “I've wasted so much time on you, Carver.”

The last nail in the coffin. Carver breathes through it, and wonders if he’ll come out in one piece on the other side.

“I won't waste any more of it, then.”

Numbly, he stands, and is nearly thrown bodily into Felix as the train lurches forward. He just manages to catch himself on the overhead bunk. He doesn’t even have enough emotional energy to apologize, but he’s spared that indignity by the crackling of the intercom. No translation needed, this time—the chipper relief in the announcer’s voice is plain enough.

As quickly as he can, he gathers his things and flees. With any luck he’ll sleep for a day and catch the next flight back to Denerim, and not spend another second in Felix’s company. Bethany will forgive him for it. Someday.

///

Carver feels like an old man by the time they stop in Catali, the modest-sized coastal town that serves as Par Vollen’s most popular port of entry. His only consolation, as he disembarks without looking around to see where Felix has got to, is that Bethany came to pick him up alone. She’s waiting for him on the platform, bouncing a little on her toes, but she takes one look at him and opens her arms, mouth pressed with worry.

“Oh darling, what happened? Was it the delay? They explained what happened over the announcements, but it wasn’t very clear.”

“It was partly the delay,” Carver agrees. He rubs a hand over his eyes and steps back. “Beth, please tell me you’re not giving Felix a lift, too.”

“No, we thought it would be better if Dorian came separately. Why? Did you and he… did something happen?”

Carver takes a very deep breath and lets it out again slow. “No. Nothing happened.” He forces a smile. “I’m just really bloody tired. How far is the beach house?”

“Just fifteen minutes.”

That’s about fifteen minutes too long in Carver’s opinion, but he doesn’t complain, just shoulders his duffle bag and lets Bethy take his coat and briefcase. Here, at least, it’s sunny and warm, if not particularly tropical today, and the balmy breeze and the brine of the ocean air soothe him as he follows his sister to the parking lot.

He falls asleep in the car. When Bethany shakes him awake gently, he feels almost nauseous, worn down to nothing but skin and bone with travel and stress. Thankfully it’s just after dinner, and everyone is out on the beach swimming or lounging or whatever it is people do on holiday in the tropics, so Beth ushers him upstairs without incident and he flops face-first onto the bed and sleeps.

He wakes up just before dawn still in his jeans and hoodie. Sometime during the night he’d managed to work himself into a somewhat normal position on the mattress, and his back is blessedly twinge-free as he climbs out of bed and shucks his gross traveling clothes for a shower.

The room—or suite, he realizes, seeing the attached half-bath—is pretty damn gorgeous. It’s too spacious for a single occupant, really, with a king-sized bed and a massive picture window overlooking the ocean, but he’s not about to complain. Beth probably arranged it on purpose, catering to his antisocial tendency to flee whenever there were too many people in the room with him at once, and he’s grateful for it.

The shower scours away the past two days of travel and by the end of it he’s feeling more human and less inclined to flee. There’s still a cold knot in his stomach at the thought of facing Felix again, but that’s nothing particularly new. The real trouble is that he can’t _stop_ thinking about him. His careful composure, slipping by slow degrees as he picked at the scab of Carver’s cruelty. The way he smiled when Carver called him _fit_. The rough, exasperated _I was in love with you, idiot_ , sparking a sharp twist of hope in Carver’s chest, against all odds. And for some reason, even though it terrifies him, he’s looking forward to seeing him again.

He’s so much more beautiful than Carver’s pathetic memory could have recalled. Maybe part of it is the five years he spent growing and maturing outside of Carver’s sphere. When Carver proposed they were so young, so naive. Neither of them had had particularly easy childhoods, but they found comfort and sincere affection in each other. Carver misses it, misses the _ease_ that used to exist between them. But at the time, he finds himself fascinated by this older, wiser, sadder Felix.

What would it be like, he wonders, to hold his hand again. To fall asleep with his breath on Carver’s cheek, and wake to his smile. To kiss him. Would he kiss the same? Or would Carver taste the evidence of other men on his lips, feel an expertise not learned in Carver’s shadow?

 _Stop it_ , he tells himself sternly. _You lost him long ago. The best you can hope for now is his friendship._

But his heart, stubborn, foolish thing that it is, is already full to bursting with hope. It’s not an emotion he’s been overly familiar with these last few years, and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. He wants to smile and cry at the same time. And when he looks down to shut off the water, his dick wants something else entirely. _Maker save me._

He _could_ turn the water back on and take care of things, but it feels… wrong. Despite the butterflies in his chest, his stomach is still hard and knotted with anxiety, and it sours the flicker of arousal that his wandering thoughts had kindled. Instead he towels off and ignores it, going about his usual morning toilette. Brush his teeth, trim his beard, moisturize. Comb his hair, deodorant. Smile for the mirror. Wipe off the fog, try again.

For some odd reason, his reflection looks different today. He looks tired, but not exhausted. Pensive, but not sad. He’s not sure why, considering everything went tits up yesterday, so he pins it on the full night of sleep—a miracle in and of itself—and goes to scrounge a change of clothes from the meagre contents of his duffle.

He’s hardly left the bathroom when there’s a knock on the door. In spite of himself, he groans. He know she means well and all, but… _Not now, Bethy. Just… not now_. Even so, he tucks the towel more firmly around his waist and goes to open the door.

It’s not Bethy. Carver sucks his gut in just a little on reflex, feeling a deep blush crawl up his face as Felix stares blatantly at his chest. He coughs, and Felix jumps, averting his eyes. “Sorry! Sorry I didn’t…”

“I thought you were Bethany,” he blurts out before Felix can beat a hasty retreat. “I’m sorry, I can—just let me put something on.”

Pretending not to notice the flash of disappointment in his eyes, Carver turns and all but runs to the bathroom, ditching the towel and wrapping himself up in one of the complimentary bathrobes. It barely comes to mid-thigh, but at least his torso is covered. He double-knots the tie just in case, and reemerges to find Felix all the way inside and across the room, looking out the window.

Carver stops and watches him. _He_ , at least, is dressed, in a forest green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a pair of white cutoff skinny jeans that make him look even browner than he is. Apparently he’s forgotten the meaning of “casual” in the years since Carver knew him. He looks tired, Carver thinks, but… calm? His shoulders are relaxed, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, and at this angle Carver can just make out the slow, unhurried blink of lashes behind his glasses.

Carver realizes, quite suddenly, that he’s being watched in turn—he meets Felix’s eyes in his reflection in the glass and starts, coming all the way into the room. “Sorry,” he says again. “I, uh, I can actually get dressed, I just… thought it might be urgent.”

“I’m not sure _urgent_ is the right word,” Felix says, turning towards him fully. He makes no further explanation, and Carver shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“What _is_ the right word, then?”

Felix stares at him rather than answer. It’s making him nervous. He’s about ready to break the silence—how, he has no idea—when Felix blurts out, “You hurt me.”

Carver tries not to rock back on his heels with the weight of those words. “I know.”

Felix’s expression twists and he says, more quietly, “You said you still loved me.”

“I said I never _stopped_ ,” he corrects gently. “There’s a difference.”

There’s something wild in his face that Carver can’t identify. Fear, maybe, or pain—an inexplicable emotion that has no name, but is instead an amalgam of every thought and doubt held close in the middle of dark nights.

Moving slowly, Carver sits at the foot of the bed, closer to Felix that he had been but still with a healthy distance between them. “Fee. Why are you here? Not that I’m displeased to see you, just…” He shrugs, and Felix grimaces and looks away.

“Yesterday was… difficult. For both of us. But we talked, honestly I think, and that… meant a lot to me. That you didn’t pull any punches, and you let me say what I needed to.” He rubs the back of his head briskly and turns back, studied determination written in his face. “Carver, I’m—I still… I mean, I wanted to apologize. What I said, about wasting my time, that was… well it was true, but it’s not the _whole_ truth.” His voice, fraught with nerves, grows steady again. “I don’t regret any of the time I spent with you.”

Carver exhales long and slow. In the light of morning, everything seems so clear. “I’m sorry I ran away.”

One corner of Felix’s mouth turns up very slightly. “I’m sorry I never gave chase.”

Carver blinks. “I never expected you to.”

“I know. But I thought of it, many times. And in the end I decided that the way you acted in grief had more bearing than the three years of devotion and care you showed me.” Felix’s brow crumples. “This isn’t all on you, you know.”

 _That_ is… a revelation. Carver has always known that he was to blame. The thought that Felix might share some of that guilt, if only in his own mind, is something he’s never considered before.

“Carver.” Felix’s gentle voice brings him back to the present. “If I’m overstepping, or if I’m making you uncomfortable, please tell me. I just… I’ve been thinking about this all night, I didn’t sleep hardly at all, and I needed to see you. To tell you in person, I… I’m sorry. And if you wanted…”

Carver thinks he might faint from suspense. “Fee, please. You’re killing me.”

Felix huffs a tiny laugh. “I thought… maybe we could try again.”

Carver shuts his eyes. His chest aches so badly he thinks it might be about to burst, but when he puts his hand to his sternum his pulse is strong and regular. “I think I’m gonna need you to say that again. Because there’s no way I’m actually awake right now. This has to be a dream.”

Another soft chuff, and then there’s hands in his hair, pulling him to lean his head against Felix’s hip. “You’re not dreaming. And I’m fairly sure that I’m not, either, because I’m never quite this sick with nerves in dreams.”

Carver catches his hands and holds them tight, daring to rest his lips against Felix’s knuckles in a gentle kiss. “Fee.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I just want you to know,” he says, pushing the words out as fast as he can, “I really hate crying in front of people, but Cass says it’s good for me to cry in front of people I trust because that means I’m expressing emotion in a safe and healthy environment—”

“Carver.” Felix’s voice draws him up short. “I would be honored if you would cry in front of me.”

That fucking does it. Carver just falls all to pieces, shaking and shivering and slobbering everywhere, and he lets it happen. Lets Felix stroke his hair and hold his hands, and eventually part from him to fetch a box of tissues. Which is when he realizes Felix has been crying, too, albeit more quietly and with a little bit less snot.

When he’s all done, sinuses as clear as he can make them and his cheeks dry, he feels simultaneously exhausted and refreshed. Then Felix turns and sits across his knees, and he hides his face in his shoulder. “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous,” he says, and he’s not entirely joking.

“Hush yourself. You’re very handsome, as you well know.” Light fingers push a lock of hair behind his ear and linger, stroking the tender skin behind as he wraps his arms around Felix’s waist. He wants to kiss him, but his face still aches from crying, so he just rests his head on Felix’s shoulder and breathes. “Who’s Cass?” Felix asks after a bit, sounding steadier himself.

“My therapist. Cassandra. She’s… great.” He smothers a grin in Felix’s sleeve. “I’m going to have to get her a fruit basket or something. She was the one who encouraged me to come.”

“Then I shall have to thank her myself. Perhaps in person.” It’s not exactly a question, but there’s an upward lilt to the suggestion all the same.

“You… want to come to Denerim?”

“Of course I do. Long term, I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to figure that out. Jobs and houses and things. If all goes well.”

It seems like very much, all of a sudden, and Carver experiences a few moments of panic. Will he have to move? Will Felix? Will they even be compatible again, living together? They’re different people, now, even though the foundation is the same, and what if it doesn’t work out? Will he be able to have a long-distance relationship?

“Carver. Carver, shhh, it’s okay.” Felix is petting his hair again, soothing him, kissing his brow. Impossibly, it works. His shoulders unwind and his death grip on Felix eases until he can lean back and look him in the eye, face soft and fond. _Maker, I adore him._ “I know there’s a lot to consider, but there’s no rush. Let’s just take it slow. Relearn each other. We have all the time in the world.”

Realistically, they don’t, but Felix’s words are still comforting. “Sweetheart,” he croaks, because his stupid throat is the last to recover from his emotional release. A smile blooms on Felix’s face, and he leans down, letting their noses brush. And then, very softly, their lips.

Carver holds very still, at first. He’s afraid to muck it up. But Felix is patient, drawing him out, gentling him until he feels confident enough to put a hand to Felix’s cheek and hold him there, steady, until he’s had his fill.

The sound of pattering feet in the hall drag them apart. Carver glances at the door, which Felix left cracked just slightly ajar. There’s the tiniest knock, and then it eases open, and a sleepy-eyed girl with her mass of white-blonde hair sticking up in a skewed little ponytail pokes her head inside. Her mouth makes a little _O_ of surprise and she bounces in place. “Uncle Carver?” she lisps, in that stage-whispery way that children do when they think they’re being quiet and subtle. “Is that you? Why’s Uncle Felix on your lap?”

Carver grins and gives Felix one last squeeze around the waist. “Hey, my little sweet potato. C’mere.”

Felix stands, and Lele explodes into the room like a little bullet, throwing herself into Carver’s arms. He hasn’t held her since she was just a few days old, though he’s spoken to her on the phone and watched her grow via pictures and home videos and skype calls, and for a moment he’s frozen with terror and amazement that this tiny girl trusts him to catch her and not let go.

“Good morning, little miss. Did you sleep well?”

“Slept real good! Did you sleep good? Mommy said you were awake a long time on the plane and were gonna sleep all week!” She seems very put out by this, but she’s soon distracted by his beard, petting her open hands down the sides of his face over and over again. Thankfully they’re clean, not sticky with juice or syrup or some other thing, although there’s a slightly sugary collection of crumbs stuck to her cheek when he kisses it.

“Did you have breakfast without me?” he demands sternly.

“Well yeah! ’Cause you were asleepin!” She puts her hands on her hips and then flings them up into the air. “Uncle Fee, catch me!”

Felix does so obediently, snatching her up before she can really launch herself from Carver’s lap. “Are you supposed to be up here, Leandra Tethras?” he asks, but he’s even worse than Carver at sounding stern, and she only giggles riotously when he holds her upside-down.

“Lele! Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry.” Bethany appears in the doorway as if by magic, still in her pyjamas. “I turned around for two seconds…”

“It’s all right. No harm done.” Carver rescues her from Felix’s less-than-evil clutches and smooches her cheeks until she shrieks with laughter. “Can you let Uncle Carver put some real clothes on? Then I’ll be right down to play.” He lowers his voice as if to keep Bethany from hearing. “Maybe if we’re real sneaky, you can have another breakfast with me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Beth murmurs, but she’s smiling as she retrieves her daughter and props her on one hip. She’s very studiously _not_ looking at Felix standing innocently in the middle of Carver’s bedroom, but her eyes are still demanding answers as she says, “There will be more pancakes in a few minutes, Varric’s going crazy down there. There might even be enough for you _and_ Garrett to have some.” She winks and slides the door shut with a decisive click.

Carver groans and flops back down on the bed. “Maker. I forgot about Garrett.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Felix says, drifting into view, though he doesn’t sit on the mattress. Probably for the best, because Carver would just snatch him up and kiss him until they both forgot about breakfast entirely. “He’s eager to see you, you know. And nervous, not that he’d admit it.”

Carver frowns and rubs his chest. “I feel like you know my family better than I do. That’s not—I’m not accusing you, I just. Ugh. I’m terrible at this.”

“You’re not terrible.” Felix _does_ sit beside him then, and pats his bare knee with a touch that lingers. “There’s a lot going on all at once. And you don’t have to hash it out with him right this minute. I know I kind of burst in here and forced your hand…”

“You didn’t force anything,” Carver says firmly, sitting up again. He leans in and is still delighted and amazed when Felix meets him halfway without a second’s hesitation. Predictably, what was meant to be a soft peck stretches out into something else, their mouths soft and clinging. Carver finally breaks away when he feels a curious hand rubbing up a little higher on his thigh, and Felix blushes and pulls away.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Another kiss, a _real_ peck this time. He’s giddy with how easy it is, how accepting Felix is of having him in his space. He thinks of Garrett, and the long, painful conversation they’re going to have to have, and pushes it aside. _One foot in front of the other, Hawke. One thing at a time._ “So… pancakes?”

Felix smiles and squeezes his hand. “I think I can handle pancakes.”


End file.
